


Three Little Words

by Skew



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2071503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skew/pseuds/Skew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, three little words can change your life completely.</p><p>Seven connected ficlets (or one fic divided into seven segments, depending on your point of view), based around the above theme. (NB: The violence warning is only really for one very brief line in the first section; it's nothing worse than what's in canon but I thought it worth ticking the box to be on the safe side.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "I'll Do It."

"I'll do it."

The man on the other side of the table reached over and shook his hand. "Welcome to the syndicate, Mr Numbers."

Three words and a handshake, and there it was: he was a hired killer. Or to be more accurate, a man who had been hired to kill someone. Not that the distinction mattered much in the eyes of the law.

The first thing he did once the meeting was over was go into a restroom to wash his face, splashing himself with ice-cold water to sluice away the nervous sweat and shock him back to reality. He spent far longer than necessary fixing his hair, combing it this way and that until he reached the point where he could no longer kid himself that he was doing anything but putting off the inevitable. It wasn't that he was scared, exactly. But it would take a heart of stone to not be at least a little spooked by how easy the whole thing had been.

A few months ago, when he was still attempting to be a rehabilitated, functional member of society, he'd applied for a job in sales. It was a rotten deal: minimum wage, long hours and no health insurance, and there'd been something like a hundred other applicants even so. They'd made him go to this group interview, where they'd had to sit in a circle and throw a beanbag to each other while saying their names and a 'fun fact' about themselves, which were rarely fun and frequently not actually facts. There were team activities. There was roleplay. It was horrendous.

But what had really got to him was the way the recruiters kept going on about _passion_. Like it wasn't enough to humiliate yourself jumping through these hoops to score a shitty dead-end job, but you had to be enthusiastic about it too. If you hadn't been dreaming since childhood of cold-calling strangers to pester them into changing their cable provider; if you didn't live, breathe and dream of nothing but emotionally blackmailing the gullible into signing up for expensive contracts they didn't understand; well then, you might as well just pack up and go home.

Needless to say, Numbers didn't get the job. It wasn't because he'd just come out of prison, they told him, all big shiny teeth and we're-ever-so-sorry eyes. They just didn't think he was _passionate_ enough.

Nobody asked him about passion this time. A man with a passion for murder was precisely what you didn't want in this line of work. They had simply set out their expectations and asked him, straightforwardly, if he could do what they asked. He stated that he could. And that was that. Easiest job interview of his life.

Of course, now he actually had to go through with it. 

 

Three weeks, a hundred and seventy hours of driving, one horrible night in a bedbug-infested motel which still had him itching, and countless conversations with strangers later, the job was done. As soon as the body was disposed of, Numbers drove away as fast as the speed limit would allow, waiting until he was well over the county line before stopping at a roadside payphone. He dialled Fargo with numb fingers and waited for their response, wondering how long he should let it ring before giving up.

The phone was answered on the seventh ring.

"Thorsen and Ringwald Consulting Solutions, how may we help you?" said a pleasant female voice on the other end. Numbers let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.

"It's Numbers," he said.

"Transferring you now, sir," replied the voice. There was a brief silence – the syndicate's fake front didn't go as far as bothering with hold music, which was probably a blessing – and then another, quite different, greeting.

"Beardo! Mate! How're you going? Thought you'd gone AWOL on us for a while there."

Oh, great. The Australian. Numbers' least favourite of the Fargo inner circle.

"I'm fine. Tell the boss the job's done."

"Yeah, righto. He'll be pleased with you – you wouldn't believe how many blokes say they're gonna do it and then chicken out. And then of course we have to get somebody else to dispose of them before they go running to the cops, it's a bloody pain in the arse. I remember this one time, right –"

"Look, I'd love to talk, but I'm at a payphone and I've only got a couple more quarters. Just tell me when I get paid."

"All in good time, my friend. Obviously we'll have to check for ourselves – just for peace of mind, you understand – but once we're sure everything's in order you'll get what you're owed."

"And in the meantime?"

"Sit tight and enjoy your time off."

 

That night, instead of heading west back to Fargo, Numbers drove to Minneapolis. He treated himself to dinner at a restaurant, and then went to a hotel bar. After all the crappy fast food and small-town gossip he'd put up with over the past few days, it was nice to play at being high society for a while. Even if he did look a little pathetic doing it alone.

There was a woman at the bar drinking by herself, a woman with panda eyes and fire-engine red hair that matched her chiffon scarf. She saw Numbers looking and raised her glass to him.

He walked up to her. "Hi."

"Hi." 

"So, what's the occasion? Toasting your success, or drowning your sorrows?"

"Both. I got divorced today." The woman regarded him over the rim of her glass as she sipped her Manhattan. "And how about you, dark and handsome stranger?"

Numbers had to think about that for a moment. "I, uh… I closed a good business deal today."

"What line of work are you in?"

"Insurance. It's _very_ boring."

"Really? I used to work in insurance, and I could certainly tell you a few tales…"

Numbers laughed, not that he was feeling even the slightest bit amused. "C'mon, let's not talk business. A cocktail bar should be strictly for pleasure."

The woman flashed him a flirtatious look. "Oh, I quite agree."

They clinked glasses.

And there was a spark there, but it was a faint and muted one. Once he would have talked her into bed, and they would have had a good time or at least a fairly decent one, and then they would either go their separate ways or have a brief and terrible fling that would start with lust and end in mutual revulsion. Now, though, he kept looking at her red scarf and thinking of the heat of the blood spilling over his hands as he had cut his target's neck, of how long it had taken to scrub it from the basement's concrete floor, of the stale, rusty smell of it that he was convinced was still lingering on his skin and clothes.

"Are you alright?" the woman said, laying her hand on her forearm. "You keep zoning out."

"I'm tired," Numbers said. "It's been a long day."

This was the catch they hadn't mentioned in the interview. Handling the dead was easy. Relating to the living afterwards, not so much.


	2. "Meet Mr Wrench."

Numbers had never played well with others. As a kid he had been barred from two separate nurseries because of his habit of biting other children who tried to play with the toys he'd designated as his. At high school, his best friend had been the janitor. And while there had been other motives at play, his deep and seething hatred for his co-workers was at least fifty percent of the reasons why he had embarked on the massive embezzling scheme that had begun his life of crime, eventually got him sent to prison, and earned him the name he used in Fargo.

So it came as something of a surprise when he was called in for a briefing one evening and found a third man at the table.

"Meet Mr Wrench," said Mr Pin. 

Pin was one of the syndicate's 'senior managers', a slim, balding man in a grey suit who had got 'looking unremarkable' down to a fine art. Mr Wrench, however, was a gigantic mutton-chopped ape in a plaid shirt and a ridiculous fringed jacket like the one the main guy wore in _Midnight Cowboy_. He was only a handlebar moustache short of looking like a 70s porn star. It took all of Numbers' self-control not to laugh.

"Hey," he said, nodding to Wrench. Mr Wrench smiled awkwardly and raised his hand in greeting. "I guess you must be new here, as I'm pretty sure I'd have noticed you around."

"He's been working for us for a few months as an enforcer," Mr Pin said, "but we feel his talents would be better put to use in a more challenging line of work. We've assigned him to you as a partner."

"Whoa, whoa, what? Don't I get any say in this?" It was nothing personal, but Numbers liked working alone. He also liked being subtle, and this guy was about as subtle as a Thanksgiving parade.

"No," Mr Pin said, sounding surprised that Numbers had even asked. "Now, let's go over the details of the assignment…"

Numbers glanced at Mr Wrench, who pulled a confused face, spreading out his hands in a gesture that clearly said, "What?" Numbers shook his head. Never mind. If the syndicate decided he was stuck with him, he was stuck with him.

 

After the briefing, they left together.

"I'll drive," Numbers said. Wrench nodded, and Numbers frowned. Throughout the whole meeting, Wrench hadn't said a thing. At first he'd thought it was just nerves or politeness. Now it was starting to get weird.

"Okay, what's with the whole silent deal?" he said.

Wrench reached into his pocket and brought out a notebook and pen. He scribbled on the pad and held it up to Numbers.

**Deaf.**

Oh, that explained it. "Can you lipread?"

Wrench nodded, then made an uncertain expression, waggling his hand to indicate that it was so-so, not something he felt very comfortable about. He flipped the page and wrote something else.

**Do you know any sign language?**

_A little_ , Numbers signed. Wrench's face suddenly lit up with a bright, almost boyish smile. He put away the notepad and responded with a flurry of signs which Numbers imagined were probably pretty basic – he caught _you_ and _car_ – but which were delivered with enough speed and fluency to leave him completely baffled. Wrench waited for his response. His face fell when he realised Numbers hadn't caught his meaning.

Numbers facepalmed. That, at least, was a gesture both of them could understand.


	3. "Stupid Deaf Asshole!"

Some days this job fucking sucked. Days of patient tracking, hours spent staking out the house, and then Wrench had gone and blown the whole thing by going off alone. The really infuriating thing was that it probably wouldn't have happened if he could have just said something, if they were able to call out to one another when something needed to be changed on the fly, but instead he'd just shot off without warning like a dog after a rabbit.

Numbers wished he'd never said yes when Mr Pin had asked him if he knew sign language. He did, kind of, but having taken a few classes at college because he was trying to impress a linguistics major wasn't the same thing as being able to work with someone for whom ASL was their first language. He had been taking a course at a community college between assignments, but that was far from perfect – for obvious reasons, a lot of the vocabulary he needed simply wasn't covered, and he didn't really feel he could go up to the instructor and ask her the signs for things like 'gun' and 'strangle' and 'do you want to use the pliers or the saw to cut his toes off?'

So mostly he'd relied on Wrench to teach him, slowly substituting signs for the pointing and miming that had seen them through their first few cases. Sometimes Wrench was a good teacher who appreciated Numbers' determination to learn his language. And sometimes he was a moody, stubborn pain in the ass. (And yes, Numbers was aware of the irony of complaining about that, and was sick to death of hearing it from the other guys every time he just wanted to vent.)

Today Wrench had been particularly sulky. Numbers almost felt he'd screwed things up just to spite him, if it wasn't for the fact that Wrench had nearly got hit in the ensuing firefight as well. But whether out of malice or idiocy, it was done now, their target knew their faces, and now they'd have to go back and think about a whole new approach. Not tonight, though. Tonight Numbers had a screaming headache and just wanted to go to bed.

As soon as they got out of the car and headed back to the cabin they'd rented, Wrench was trying to get Numbers' attention. Numbers just turned his back and ignored it. He went inside, hung up his coat, removed his shoes; Wrench tapped at his shoulder, but he swatted him away. He had taken off his jacket and was in the process of unbuttoning his shirt when Wrench grabbed his upper arms and forcibly turned him around.

_Why won't you look at me?_ He signed angrily.

_I don't want to talk to you. Go to bed_ , Numbers replied.

Wrench glared, nostrils flaring as he breathed hard through his nose. _You are so rude._

Numbers shrugged and turned away, but Wrench grabbed him by the shoulders again.

"Get off me!" Numbers shouted, pushing him back.

_I want to know why you're in this shitty mood,_ Wrench said.

"Can't you –" Numbers stopped to think about how to say it in ASL, signing slowly and with great emphasis. _I'm tired. I'm sore. You fucked up the hit._

_I fucked it up?_ Wrench said. He signed something fast, something Numbers couldn't quite make out, but it ended with _saved your life probably_.

_You changed the plan. Don't change the plan without telling me._

_I tried to tell you but you didn't look at me._ Wrench sighed heavily. _Why don't you trust me?_

_What?_

Wrench signed slowly, like he was addressing a child. _You treat me like a baby. I can think for myself._

_It was thinking for yourself that got us in this mess._ Numbers shook his head, and added to himself, "Stupid deaf asshole."

Wrench leaned in close, signing in Numbers' face. _What did you call me?_

Numbers stood on his tiptoes and craned his neck so his face was only an inch or two away from Wrench's, exaggerating the movements of his mouth so Wrench couldn't fail to get the message. "I called you a stupid – deaf – asshole!"

Wrench responded by shoving Numbers hard enough to make him stumble backwards, falling back across his bed. Numbers got to his feet, and punched Wrench in the stomach.

The scuffle that ensued tore the sleeve of Numbers' shirt, split Wrench's lower lip, broke one of the lamps, and startled a moose that had been grazing just outside the window. Eventually, probably inevitably, Wrench got the upper hand, pinning Numbers to the floor with his forearm pressed over Numbers' throat, pressing down _just_ enough to make it difficult for Numbers to breathe without actually cutting off his air supply.

Numbers flailed, trying to sign _sorry_ , before resorting to saying it aloud instead. Wrench moved his arm away, but remained kneeling over Numbers, glaring down at him. A bead of blood dripped from his lip and landed on Numbers' cheek.

_I'm sorry_ , Numbers signed.

Wrench cocked his head to one side. _Are you just saying that because I kicked your ass?_

Numbers shook his head. _No. I was in a bad mood and I was acting like a jerk._

Wrench nodded. _So was I._

_Why did you go out on your own?_

_I thought I saw him going out the back door. I didn't realise he wasn't alone in there. I signed but you were so focused on the front door you didn't look at me. I knew if I tried to get your attention you would get mad, and I couldn't waste any more time._

Now it made sense. Numbers nodded. _I would have done the same. I'm sorry for not trusting you._

_It's okay. I know I'm not easy to work with._

_Don't apologise for that. I'm the asshole here._

Wrench shrugged. _Maybe we're both assholes?_

Apparently satisfied with that conclusion, he got to his feet and offered a hand to Numbers. Numbers didn’t need it, but he felt that in the circumstances it would be best to accept it, letting Wrench haul him up like he weighed nothing at all.

_You fight pretty good for a short guy_ , Wrench added after he let him go.

_I'm not short. You are far too tall_, Numbers replied.

_I think I'm exactly the right size._

Numbers rolled his eyes. "Not even going there," he said aloud. _I'd love to talk, but I'm beat. Let me get my beauty sleep, okay?_

He didn't catch everything Wrench said as he turned away to continue his preparations for bed, but the first couple of signs were something like _you don't need_. He was going to choose to believe it was a compliment.


	4. "Stay Here Tonight."

Wrench all but carried Numbers into the house. With his arm around Wrench's shoulders, and Wrench holding him firmly by the waist, only Numbers' toes touched the ground, dragging through the mud and slush.

Wrench dropped Numbers onto the couch. _Wait here_ , he signed. A few moments later, he was back with medical supplies, setting them out on the coffee table before going to work. He held Numbers' head in place with one hand and used tweezers to pick out pieces of grit and glass, before dabbing the cuts with antiseptic and putting sticking plasters over the ones that were still bleeding. None of it was too bad – nothing in his eyes, no deep lacerations that would require stitches – but Numbers could see his face reflected in the screen of the television on the other side of the room, and he knew he looked a mess.

Wrench moved back, appraising his handiwork.

 _All done?_ Numbers asked.

 _You look like you got headbutted by a porcupine_ , Wrench replied, _but I think I got it all. How do you feel?_

_Like you would expect a man who got thrown through a window to feel._

Wrench nodded. _I think I've got something for that._

He got to his feet and went to a wooden cabinet on the other side of the room, bringing out a bottle of whisky. Good stuff, too, by the looks of it.

_Doctor Wrench, you're a genius._

Wrench bowed dramatically and placed the bottle on the table. _I know, I know. You want ice? Soda?_

_Ice would be good._

Wrench nodded. _Going to the freezer. Be right back._

While Wrench was out of the room, Numbers took the opportunity to take a look around. He'd never been to Wrench's house before, and he hadn't quite known what he was expecting – a log cabin, maybe? – but it wasn't this.

The décor was as dated as Wrench's car and fashion sense, all wood panelling and horrible brown soft furnishings. There was a macramé owl hung up on one of the walls, and one of those clocks in the shape of a cat whose eyes and tail moved from side to side with every tick. What really struck him, though, was the books. There were books everywhere – on shelves that lined an entire wall of the living room, underneath the coffee table, stacked in a teetering pile next to one of the armchairs. All kinds of books, too: classic literature and tacky airport thrillers, science fiction and old comics, non-fiction about explorers and gangsters and the Old West. Numbers walked over to one of the bookcases, chuckling to himself as he browsed through the selection. Wrench gave him a quizzical look as he walked back in.

 _What's funny?_ he signed after putting down the glasses and ice. 

_You have a lot of crime fiction,_ Numbers said.

_So?_

_I'd have thought that would be the last thing you'd want to read._

_I like mysteries,_ Wrench said. _It's not like real life._

Well, that some way to explaining all the Agatha Christie, nestled incongruously in between the Elmore Leonard and Henning Mankell.

 _Anything you'd recommend?_ Numbers asked.

Wrench considered it. _I think you'd like Carl Hiaasen. His books are all kind of the same, but they're good fun._

Numbers skimmed the shelf for the name, and pulled out a book called Strip Tease. He flipped it over and read the back cover, before showing it to Wrench and putting it down. _Wasn't this made into that shitty movie with Demi Moore?_

_I haven't seen it. I don't like it when they make books into movies. It's never the same._

_Not even this?_ Numbers pulled a copy of Fight Club from the shelf.

_Oh, yeah, I have that on DVD. But that's just because Brad Pitt is sexy._

It wasn't the first time Wrench had made a remark along those lines, and Numbers still didn't know what to make of it. It would be better, he thought, if he was better at telling when Wrench was being sarcastic.

He put the book away and went to the table, pouring himself a generous measure of whisky. _Just one, though,_ he signed. _I'll need to drive home._

Wrench shook his head. _Stay here tonight._

Numbers started to put the glass down to sign a reply, something along the lines of 'Thanks for the offer but I'm fine', but Wrench kept on going.

 _It's icy out there, and it's getting dark. And you got hurt and I want to keep an eye on you. And –_ Wrench paused, hands clenching into fists, then took a deep breath and went on. _And today fucking sucked and I want to get drunk and it's sad drinking alone._

There was a line here, Numbers knew, and he could either cross it or not. As far as he was concerned, Wrench was a business partner. Business partners didn't hang out at one another's houses and get drunk.

Then again, _nobody_ these days hung out with Numbers and got drunk. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to have at least one friend.

He nodded. _Alright, I'll stay._

 

After a couple of rounds of Scotch and a continuation of their conversation about books being made into movies, they decided to actually watch _Fight Club_ , as neither had seen it for a couple of years. During the first fight scene between Durden and the narrator, Numbers snuck a glance at Wrench's face, trying to figure out if he'd been serious about what he had said earlier.

Wrench caught him looking.

 _What?_ he said.

_Nothing._

Wrench frowned. _Then why are you staring at me?_

_Because it’s fun watching you stare at Brad Pitt._

_Does it bother you?_ Wrench said, with a lift of his eyebrows which suggested he didn’t give the tiniest of shits if it did.

_Oh no. I think that it's adorable that you have the same taste in men as a 13-year-old girl._

_Fuck you. Brad Pitt is really hot in this movie._ Wrench gestured at the screen, where Brad Pitt and Edward Norton were sharing a post-fight beer. _Look, even he's into it._

To be fair, Numbers could see his point. Brad Pitt wasn't generally his type, but as Tyler Durden he had a certain kind of raw, menacing sexual charisma that was exactly his thing. He also suspected that the Scotch had gone to Wrench's head faster than he'd expect for such a big guy. Not that he was going to mention either of those things, not now he'd discovered he had a whole new way of getting on Wrench's nerves.

 _I figured you were gay, but I never thought teen idols would be your thing,_ Numbers said. _Do you have all of Leonardo DiCaprio's movies too? Is your bedroom covered in posters of Orlando Bloom?_

Wrench shook his head. _Dickhead._

_I'm just asking! I wouldn't want to buy you a subscription to Tiger Beat for Christmas without being sure._

_Well, since you're asking_ – the look on Wrench's face clearly said 'you've opened a can of worms here' – _I like tough guys. Hugh Jackman. Jason Statham. Robert De Niro in_ Taxi Driver. _I like fucking men who can take it and then some._

The way Wrench's expression had gone a little distant and dreamy when he'd signed 'fucking men' made something twist in Numbers' stomach, a weird shivery heat that swept over him and vanished as suddenly as it had started. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. Wrench frowned.

_TMI? Sorry. Blame the Scotch._

Numbers waved it off and poured himself another glass; anything to distract himself from how weirdly turned on he was feeling right now. _I'm just glad you aren't going to make me watch Titanic._

 _Yeah, fuck Titanic._ Romeo + Juliet, _on the other hand…_

Numbers threw a cushion at him.

 

Numbers didn't remember falling asleep. When he woke, morning light was filtering through the thin curtains and he was laid out on the couch, cushion under his head and blankets tucked in around him. A glass of water and a bottle of Advil had been left on the coffee table nearby. He could hear Wrench moving around upstairs, heavy footfalls making the floorboards creak.

In the first few hazy minutes before full consciousness, he felt cosy and safe, fuzzy memories filtering back of Wrench's hand firmly but gently holding his jaw as he'd patched him up, of seeing Wrench laugh and lick whisky from his fingers after spilling some while refilling their glasses, of how he'd been so tired and just leaned against Wrench's side a moment while he rested his eyes…

And then he remembered who he was, and what had been comforting a moment before was actually fucking terrifying.

Thankfully for his state of mental well-being, however, Numbers' slide into paranoid self-examination was nipped in the bud by Wrench charging into the living room, eagerly signing at him to get up and get moving already, because it was going to be a long day and he wanted to go get pancakes.

Numbers downed the Advil and got to his feet. Self-doubt could wait until after breakfast.


	5. "Need A Hand?"

The winters here were bad enough, but what Numbers really hated was the summer. When it was cold you could always put on another layer, but when it was hot, there was a limit to how much you could take off. He mused on this problem as he drove back to the motel, trying to remember the words to some stupid ditty he'd once heard about taking off your skin and dancing around in your bones. It was pretty inane, but it was better than dwelling on the other thing that had been on his mind for most of the day.

He would readily admit that Wrench was good-looking, and he'd managed to get over his hang-ups and learn to enjoy having him as a friend, but thinking of him as a partner in anything other than the business sense was a thought that Numbers only allowed to enter his head when very tired, very drunk, or both.

Then summer had come, and the buckskin jacket had been put aside in favour of a roster of skimpy wifebeaters and tight t-shirts that all seemed deliberately selected to draw attention to Wrench's shoulders and chest. Even worse was when they were sharing a room with no aircon and Wrench insisted on lounging around in nothing but his boxers. Numbers wasn't even allowed to object – if he made a fuss, all he'd get was another round of teasing about why he was so intimidated by the presence of a large half-naked gay man, or why he was trying to make Wrench feel ashamed of his body. If he was really unlucky, Wrench would start exercising in front of him. It was very hard to argue with someone doing squat thrusts.

Numbers' accepted that a lot of Wrench's behaviour was just his way of showing that he felt comfortable around him, and that was fine. There had to be a line somewhere, though, and that was what had sparked off the argument they had had this morning.

He'd didn't even mind that Wrench jerked off when they were sharing a room. He was only human, and this job didn't exactly offer many opportunities for forming lasting relationships. Numbers could tolerate the idea of someone masturbating in the same room as him while he was sleeping.

_That's not the problem,_ Numbers had said, striving to appear as neutral and non-judgmental as possible. _But could you try to be more subtle about it?_

_What do you mean? I always wait until you're asleep._

_Well, I'm not always. And sometimes you wake me up._

Wrench had frowned at that. _You're exaggerating._

_I'm not._ Numbers grimaced. _You're really loud, okay? You grunt and the bed creaks and I can hear it –_ He paused, trying to think of how to phrase it. _Slapping. You know?_ He did not add that more often than not, this left him lying there with a furious erection, debating whether to ignore it or to join in.

_At least I try to wait for you to fall asleep,_ Wrench replied. _You don't. You do it soon as the lights go out._

_That's a lie! And how would you know? You can't hear._

Wrench scowled. _I can fucking smell it._

_I didn't think you'd mind the smell of come._

Wrench rolled his eyes. _Don't get your hopes up._

Numbers had noticed that Wrench had gone quite red in the face by the end of it, though that could easily be his temper or the heat as much as anything else. At any rate, once Wrench had calmed down, they'd come to the sensible and obvious solution that they shouldn't do it at all if the other one was in the room. And now, since Numbers felt bad for having started another argument, he was making it up to him by taking Wrench's books back to the library and getting something for dinner. There wasn't much in the world that couldn't be solved with fried chicken and beer.

"Hi honey, I'm home!" he called as he entered the motel room. He wasn't expecting a reply, of course, but he also wasn't expecting the sight that greeted his eyes after he put down the take-out bags and turned around. Wrench had clearly taken the morning's conversation to heart, and had used Numbers' absence as an opportunity to do what he was now banned from doing after lights out.

The sensible thing to do would have been to leave the room. If he was feeling particularly passive-aggressive, he could have left a note asking him to text him once he was finished.

Instead, Numbers just stood and stared. God only knew how long he'd been going at it, but he looked pretty far gone. His eyes were closed and his head was thrown back, his knees bent so he could brace his feet on the bed and thrust up into his tightly gripping hand. He had his underwear pushed down to about mid-thigh and his shirt had got rucked up around his armpits, his exposed chest and stomach gleaming with sweat.

It was mental images just like this which had kept Numbers awake during all those long nights when he'd only been able to hear him, cursing Wrench's lack of inhibitions and his own vague and blurry sexuality. Except it was even worse in reality, since Numbers' pathetic imagination hadn't considered the pretty blush that spread all the way from Wrench's face to his chest, or the way the muscles of his arm flexed as he stroked his cock, or that he would sometimes reach down with his free hand to stroke his balls and the skin just beneath them in a way that looked like an invitation…

But it wasn't, of course, so he should stop looking. And he would. Any minute now.

Numbers was telling himself for something like the fourth or fifth time that he really needed to stop ogling and go, even starting to move to the door, when Wrench did the unthinkable and opened his eyes. He sniffed the air and looked around – oh, that was just typical, that he'd get distracted from sex by the smell of food – and then he saw Numbers. 

Okay, now was a good time to turn away. Or act surprised, like he'd only just come in. Or Jesus Christ, anything, _anything_ , just say something rather than gaping like a fish…

But before Numbers could think of an actual response, he noticed Wrench's look change from one of accusatory anger to something rather more speculative, looking down along his body and coming to a halt somewhere around the middle, a sneaky smile creeping across his face as he noticed the erection that Numbers' tailored pants did precisely nothing to conceal.

Numbers sighed. Well, things were already fucked up beyond salvation. He might as well just go for it.

Feigning nonchalance, he leaned back against the wall and gave Wrench his best bedroom eyes.

_Need a hand?_ he signed.

Wrench blushed even deeper – quite an achievement, considering how much of his blood was diverted elsewhere – and after a moment's pause, nodded.

 

By the time they were done, the chicken was cold and the beer was warm, and they ended up getting pizza delivered instead. It was, they both agreed, a worthwhile sacrifice.


	6. "He's My Boyfriend."

The new guy was chatty. He was so chatty he made the Australian look reserved. Numbers hated him.

It wasn't really the chattiness that made Mr Fisher a douchebag, though, so much as the whole presentation – the earring and the fedora and that horrible little tuft of hair just underneath his lower lip that was apparently called a 'soul patch'. But mostly, it was the fact he was a greasy dork who looked about twelve, and the boss and everyone else seemed to think the sun shined out of his smarmy ass. They'd been hanging on his every word all night while he went on and on about techno-crime: stealing identities and hacking bank accounts and taking down computer networks, all from the comfort of your own home. The old ways were history – and he kept fucking looking at Numbers when he said 'old' – the internet was the future.

He was probably right. That didn't stop him from being a dick.

“Yeah, but you can’t kill people over the internet, can you?” Numbers remarked. Fisher looked at him like he’d just spat in his drink.

“You can make them legally dead,” he said. “Which is much more fun."

“I don’t do this for fun.”

“That explains why you look so miserable all the time.”

The boss laughed at that. The boss laughed. Numbers’ eyes went wide. Since when did the boss laugh?

 _Is this guy bothering you?_ Wrench signed to him from the opposite side of the table.

 _Is it obvious?_ Numbers replied.

_You look like you want to take his eyes out with a spoon._

Numbers laughed, both at Wrench’s reading of the situation, and at the aggressive enthusiasm with which he signed ‘take his eyes out’.

Mr Fisher noticed them. “What’s all the hand-wavey stuff about?”

“Oh, just discussing our next orders at the bar. Mr Wrench is deaf.”

"Deaf? Seriously?" Mr Fisher gave Wrench an amused look. "So if I say he looks like a gay cowboy, he won't know?"

“Well, unless I tell him.” _This jerk just said you dress like a gay cowboy,_ he signed.

 _You say that all the time_ , Wrench replied.

_Yeah, but I get off on it._

Wrench laughed.

“Hey, he laughed!” Fisher said, staring. “Can he speak?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Numbers replied. There was nothing wrong with Wrench's vocal cords (he'd learned that the fun way), but he knew that while Wrench was able to speak, he didn't like doing it. He'd once explained it to Numbers as like writing with your eyes closed – it wasn't hard, but not being able to know if you were doing it wrong until after the fact made the whole experience uncomfortable.

"Hey, Big Gay Al. Can – you – speak?" Fisher said to Wrench, speaking in that special slow and loud voice people reserved for patronising small children, old people and the disabled.

 _Can you sign?_ Wrench responded, and when Fisher looked confused, his expression very plainly said 'Didn't think so, bitch.' Fisher visibly shrunk away, turning his back to Wrench as he looked over at Numbers.

"He prefers sign language," Numbers said placidly.

"Ohhhh-kay," Fisher said. "So how come you know it? Are you his interpreter?"

"Sometimes. We're partners." 

Fisher let out an undignified snort of laughter. "What, like your boyfriend?"

Numbers coolly met his gaze. "Yes. He's my boyfriend."

Silence descended upon the room. After several long moments, it was broken by the Australian collapsing into a fit of giggles.

“Aw, Fisher, mate, your face! He got you there alright.” 

Numbers looked at him. “Oh, I wasn't kidding. Mr Wrench really is my boyfriend.”

He glanced over at Wrench, hoping he wasn’t going to be offended by the admission. Instead Wrench leaned over and cheerfully signed _We’ve been fucking like rabbits for months now_ , using a sign for ‘fucking’ that made the meaning clear even to those who weren’t fluent in ASL. He finished off by turning and blowing a kiss at Numbers, who mimed catching it and putting in his pocket.

The reaction at the table was mixed. Fisher looked slightly queasy. The Australian was uncharacteristically lost for words. One guy at the far end of the table muttered "You owe me ten bucks" to the guy next to him. And the boss – oh, shit, Numbers had forgotten about the boss. He gave them a long, hard look.

“You’re a cute couple,” he said at last. “But don’t think we’re paying for the bridal suite next time you’re on the road.”

The whole table burst out laughing, and like that, the tension was gone. Everyone knew and it was okay. And oh, fuck, that meant Wrench, too. Numbers hadn't ever referred to him as his boyfriend before, or even acknowledged that there was more to what they were doing than sex. But who was he kidding? They spent almost all their time together. They made each other dinner, they watched TV, they went on trips in between their assignments. Neither of them had families or much in the way of friends, and both had more than their fair share of emotional issues. The only reason that he'd been reluctant to say it, Numbers realised, wasn't because he was worried about what anyone else thought. It was because he'd been scared to admit it to himself.

But he'd done it now, and the world hadn't ended.

Yeah, motherfuckers, he thought to himself, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms. He's my boyfriend.


	7. "We'll Do It."

_You look thoughtful,_ Wrench signed as Numbers got out of the car. _What’s on your mind?_

_Just thinking. It’s five years to the day since I started working here._

Wrench nodded, and added with a smile, _You remember that but not our anniversary?_

_When’s our anniversary? Is it the first time we fucked, or the first time we went on a date, or the first time we told other people we were together? Those are all different days._

_I like to measure it from the day we met,_ Wrench said.

_You’re so sentimental._

_Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it,_ Wrench said, and ruffled Numbers’ hair.

_If you were anyone else I would take your hand off for that,_ Numbers signed, before taking his comb out of his pocket to put his messed-up hair back into place. 

_That's why I do it,_ Wrench said.

They went into the restaurant, where Numbers ordered a plate of General Tso's chicken and Wrench, not feeling hungry, had a glass of lemonade. Shortly after their order arrived, they were greeted by Mr Bricks – Mr Pin's replacement after he had gone missing in mysterious circumstances involving a truckload of marijuana, a bunch of angry Canadians and (if the Australian was to be believed) a trained python called Eddie. 

Clearing a spot in between the glasses and plates, Bricks briefed them on their next assignment. Apparently, one of the syndicate's regular clients had been sleeping with a prostitute when someone had ruined the moment by stabbing him in the back of the head. Their job was to go to Bemidji, find out who'd done it, and then – to use the typically ambiguous phrasing the syndicate were so fond of using when it wasn't clear how a case might pan out – 'deal with him'.

"I'll be honest with you guys, it's a pig of a case. Bemidji's a hole, and Hess was small fry. You ask me, I don't even think it’s a syndicate issue – more likely he got on the wrong side of the hooker's boyfriend or something. Don't know if you ever met Hess, but he wasn't what you'd call lovable." Mr Bricks sighed, tried to pick up a dumpling with his chopsticks, and failed miserably. "Still, the boss insisted. He said it's gonna take a bit of work finding the right guy, and it could escalate if it ain't handled right, so he wanted someone smart. Said you two are good at these weird jobs. I guess that's a compliment, right guys?" He laughed. Wrench and Numbers didn't. "Still, I ain't gonna force you. I got some younger guys just raring to go right now, they'd be happy to take it off your hands."

_What do you think?_ Numbers said to Wrench.

_Could be okay. I don't mind detective work._ Wrench stroked his chin thoughtfully. _It's nice and quiet out there. We could go fishing or hunting, if there's time. Get a log cabin, with a big open fire. And a fur rug in front of it._

Numbers raised his eyebrows. _Are you really saying you want to take this job because you want to fuck me on a bearskin rug?_

Wrench grinned. _All night long, baby._

Oh god. Numbers really, _really_ , hated the way Wrench came out with the most appallingly cheesy lines, and they somehow still managed to be hot.

_We have to finish the job first,_ he said.

_It'll be fine. Bemidji's a small town, everyone knows each other. We'll have the answer in no time._

_So we're taking it?_

_I'm in if you're in, but it's your decision._ Wrench paused, and then added, _I love you._

Sometimes three little words could turn your whole life upside down. Strangely enough, 'I love you' hadn't been one of them. Perhaps it was because it wasn't three words, when they said it to each other, but a gesture they could make in plain view of everyone else without anyone knowing its meaning. Perhaps it was just because everything was settling down, for a change. He signed it back, feeling a little glow of pride at the way it made Wrench smile.

That was that, then. A little mystery-solving in Bemidji and a nice vacation in the woods. How hard could it be?

Numbers nodded to Mr Bricks.

"We'll do it."


End file.
